"I'm impressed, Emma. That was a very complicated piece and yet you had no difficulty playing it. I'm just not sure why you chose to play it in A-flat when it's almost always performed in E. I'm not criticizing you. It was just so...different."
Her violin teacher was a kindly old man, but he seemed incapable of offering a compliment that didn't include some kind of 'but' or 'however.' It was what her grandmother called a left-handed compliment and her late father referred to as a compliment with shit on it. Emma winced when she thought of that word. She'd loved her daddy, but he was often a very mean and very crude man. Of course, that was almost certainly due to the fact he was nearly always drunk. Emma decided not to reply to Mr. Winslow's concern about her choice of key. After all, if she could play it well, then the key was a matter of personal choice. And Emma had a sad but personal connection with her choice.
"May I be excused, Mr. Winslow?" Emma asked sweetly.
"Of course, dear. I'll see you two days hence at the appointed time then?"
"Yes, sir. I won't be late again. I promise," she assured him. Emma arrived ten minutes late which, to Mr. Winslow, a devout Catholic like Emma and her mother, was a kind of mortal sin. That was ironic because she'd been held up by Father McKenna after confession.
She was always honest with her parish priest. Without naming him, she'd once again confessed the lust she felt for a boy named Bobby McAlister, but this time she was devastated when her penance was 1,000 Hail Marys. She loved the Blessed Virgin, but she'd never been assigned more than 10 for her wicked thoughts. This time, Father McKenna asked to see her in his office.
Even though she'd gone to Catholic school in that parish all of her life, and in spite of graduating as valedictorian, she was still intimidated by Father McKenna. She was nearly trembling when he told her to get up off the bench outside his office where she'd been waiting for him and come inside. She'd only been summoned once before, and that was because he was told she'd been a possible witness to something horribly bad. Allegedly, she'd seen two of the senior boys kissing in an empty room. She hadn't and neither had anyone else, but that didn't matter as the boys were both expelled for their heinous conduct—just in case. And here she was again being told to come in and sit down.
"Yes, Father?" she said without raising her eyes.
"My child, how many times have you confessed to this same sin? This lust of yours for an unnamed boy? Twenty-five? Thirty? More?"
Emma Castillaw was petrified. She was 19, but felt like a child in so many ways. She still lived with her widowed mother, she had no job, no money, no boyfriend, and she was—homely. At least that was the word most people used to describe her. Some referred to her as 'comfortable looking' but she knew what they meant. She had to admit she did live at home and having had only one date in her life—an uncomfortable fix-up that ended two hours early—it most certainly was a rather apt description.
"That sounds about right, Father," she told him.
"Emma? It's normal for a girl your age to like boys. And while we don't encourage impure thoughts, they can arise in our minds, but we mustn't let them grow. What is it you're imagining? Perhaps we can find some way for you to overcome these temptations."
Emma's blood ran cold. How could she tell her priest what she was thinking? It was too much to ask of anyone. In fact, the genesis of her thoughts was something she couldn't discuss—period. How could she possibly explain what she'd seen on her 18th birthday when her first and only date pretended to have gotten an emergency phone call before the movie he was taking her to see even began? Once they'd arrived at the theater, Bobby McAlister had asked her to stay and sit with him in the parking lot before they went inside. Emma thought he was the cutest boy she'd ever seen and couldn't believe he'd asked her out. She didn't learn until after the disaster that he only did so because his mother was friends with her mother and she'd begged Bobby's mom to have her son ask out her Emma. After just five minutes of small talk, Bobby took her hand. A few minutes later, he leaned over and kissed her. Emma was taken completely by surprise but it was a very...pleasant...kind of surprise. She began kissing him back and didn't stop even when Bobby stuck his tongue in her mouth. It was oddly exciting and Emma...liked it. But then he'd tried to...touch her...up there. She was so confused and frightened she pushed him away and demanded he take her home immediately. But that was only the beginning of her evil thoughts.
When she arrived at her apartment, she quietly snuck inside then did her best to silently tiptoe upstairs without being seen. She made it to the bottom of the stairs when she heard strange noises. She stopped and looked and what she witnessed was unspeakable. Her mother was naked and kneeling between Daddy's knees as he was sitting on the couch. Mother had his...thing...in her mouth and daddy was saying things that were unspeakable. "Suck my cock you fucking Catholic whore!" And momma just kept doing it.
Emma was spellbound. She knew she shouldn't watch. It was so wrong. It was...sinful. But she couldn't help herself. She peeked around the stair post and watched until after a few minutes of that, momma stood up and climbed up on daddy's lap and lowered herself onto his...pole thingy...and she was saying terrible things, too! "Oh, God! Oh, Jesus! Fuck my slut ass! Fuck me hard!"
That night, Emma began touching herself as she lusted after Bobby. She pictured herself doing that to him and him doing...that...to her. This went on the rest of her senior year and she was still fantasizing about these evil things with no end of her lust in sight. No, there was simply no way she could tell Father McKenna her thoughts.
"My child? If you won't tell me your thoughts, let me ask you this. Have you tried telling this boy that you like him? Perhaps he might ask you out and then you could possibly fall in love and marry him. Wouldn't that be preferable to living in this perpetual state of sinful lust? I must tell you, the Blessed Virgin cannot be happy with such things. Yet you seem unwilling to repent and change your ways. That is why I assigned 1,000 Hail Marys. If there is a next time it will be 10,000. Do you understand me, child?"
Emma never once looked up. She sat straight with her knees together, her folded hands in her lap. Even now, there was nothing to say. Bobby would never feel the same way about her. He was popular and athletic. She was...not. Emma wore glasses—thick glasses which corrected her nearsightedness. Her teeth weren't straight but her hair was. Straight, brown, and plain. She was also very thin and if that wasn't enough, God had not seen fit to bless her with...to endow her with...breasts. She was 19 and as flat as any boy. She wore a bra, but there was certainly no anatomically-necessary reason to do so. She was what she'd heard some mean boys call "a pirate's dream." The first time she heard that, she felt flattered—until the punch line was spoken. "Because she's got a sunken chest!" some boy had said as the others all laughed raucously. The shame Emma felt had stayed with her ever since.
"Very well, then," Father McKenna said. "You may be excused, but I do not want you back in my confessional next week asking for forgiveness of this same sin, my child. Even God's patience has limits."
Emma quietly picked up the violin case she'd brought with her and quickly walked out. She only had to walk one block to Mr. Winslow's studio, but she knew she would now be late. Like Father McKenna, he would also be upset with her. On top of all that, her mother told her she had to begin looking for work to help make ends meet and the temp agency had called informing her she had her first job that morning at 9am. It was now 8:15 leaving her precious little time to get home, change, and take the bus to the office building in the middle of the Bronx. Fortunately, the middle of the Bronx was only six blocks away. Emma walked as quickly as she could, hoping (and praying) she wouldn't be also be late for her first day of work. To add insult to injury, this office expected its employees to dress professionally. Because it was so cold outside, that meant Emma would need to wear her least favorite thing which emphasized her lack of...what? Cleavage? That was almost funny. Emma not only didn't have cleavage, she didn't even have bumps. She was as flat-chested as a girl could be. How could she tell Mr. Winslow she'd chosen A-flat as her key because that was the way she felt about herself?
___________
"So she was still there? Dude! Talk about a dumb blonde!"
